


Professor Layton and the Surgeon's Riddle

by a_mere_trifle



Series: Professor Layton and the Gentleman's Treason [6]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Class Issues, Drama, Gen, Gender Roles, How Do I Tag, Intrigue, Libraries, Retail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-03-20 04:04:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18984892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_mere_trifle/pseuds/a_mere_trifle
Summary: As their campaign continues, the Professor comes to the realisation that there are a few loose ends he's left undone. He's given long consideration to what a gentleman is, but what, in fact, is a lady?4/5 “Just because we need to gain entry doesn’t mean we should leave a path wide open for any burglars to--”“We’ll lock it on the way back!”“You’re lying, aren’t you?”“Of course I’m bloody lying! Stop being an idiot!”





	1. Chapter 1

"Layton," said Paul, "I have a question."

Layton raised an eyebrow. It was unusual for Paul to take an indirect route. "Yes?"

"Do you even know how to cook?"

The other eyebrow joined it. "Why on earth do you ask?"

"Because when I suggested we might meet for breakfast," said Paul, "I didn't mean a date at a bloody cafe."

"I fear you should have specified, then. Why not at your place, if you object thus?"

"I'm not at all sure I want you knowing where I live."

"I know where you work," Layton pointed out. And from the state of the couch, he was fairly certain Paul spent more time there than at his official domicile, wherever that might be.

"Old habits,” said Paul. “Someday you might feel obligated to turn me in."

"I could hardly do that at this point."

"Somehow I don't think that's going to last forever.”

Layton frowned. “You really expect me to betray you?”

“I expect everyone to betray me. Obnoxious do-gooders in particular. Why did you have to bring us here during the goddamn morning rush?”

“I suppose you’ll have to be more specific next time,” said Layton. “Hush, now, we’re next.”

“We?”

“If you object so strongly to the location, it seems only polite that I should at least cover your expenses.”

“When did I say I wanted--”

“Next!” called the girl at the counter. Layton stepped up. “What can I get for you?”

“The breakfast special on the board looked excellent,” said Layton.

“Sugar or milk?”

“No thank you. But I’d like to pay for my friend’s order as well.”

The girl nodded. “And your usual, Mr. Paolo?”

Layton turned to Paul. Why on earth had the man been complaining about coming here if he were a regular? Then again, given the man’s previous comments, perhaps that was exactly why he’d been complaining about coming here. “Oh, I suppose,” Paul sighed. 

“It’s nice to see you coming in with a friend,” said the girl, tapping at the till. 

“He’s actually an enemy. I’ll have stabbed him by teatime.”

The girl laughed. “I don’t think you’d have that kind of patience.”

“I’m fairly certain it’s a bluff,” Layton agreed, and handed her the cash for the bill. 

“Mr. Paolo doesn’t suffer fools gladly, that’s for sure. At any rate, please sit down. We’ll have your order in a moment.” The girl nodded at them, then turned her gaze to the next customers in line.

“Mr. Paolo, is it?” said Layton, heading for a table. The ones by the window were taken, but there was a fairly nice spot by a pot-plant with seating for two.

“There was a misunderstanding,” Paul muttered.

“I’m surprised they’re so friendly with you.”

“Ugh. There was an incident when she was in training.” Paul sat down, scowling.

“Incident?”

“Some damn fool complaining there was milk in his latte. Wouldn’t let her get a word in edgewise. That bloody entitled type that bullies weak ones to tears. I’d never have got my goddamn coffee if _someone_ hadn’t shut him up.”

“So you came to the rescue.” Layton smiled. It was nice to know that Paul had some noble instincts in him.

"Some of us had to work in shops for a living. It changes a man."

“Oh?” Layton hadn’t, actually; he’d done well enough in school that his way had been paid, or enough that academic postings and the occasional care package from home had carried him all the way through to his professorship. 

“People,” said Paul, “are bloody awful.”

“I can hardly agree with that.”

“You never had to work in a shop for a living. I grant you, there’s the occasional nice one, and the grand mass of ‘em who never even look at you like you’re a person. But the sheer bloody entitlement of some people, Layton, I swear to god.”

Another employee came by, placing Layton’s tea and breakfast sandwich in front of him, and giving Paul a coffee and a croissant. Layton nodded at the man, and as he left, asked, “Entitlement?”

“Some people think they deserve the world and everything in it to be exactly as they want it at all times,” said Paul, and tore off a bite of his croissant. “If you don’t know the type by now somehow, I can promise you’re going to learn.”

Layton supposed he had run across the type before. There’d been any number of spoiled moguls on his journeys, and he had to admit they were unpleasant. He frowned at his sandwich, then decided it would be rather more sensible if he contemplated the problem while eating it instead. He didn’t usually tend toward this sort of breakfast, but the potential efficiency of it appealed.

“Then again,” said Paul, after another few bites, “I suppose you wouldn’t have seen them at their worst. They’re at their worst with people they think they have power over. Servants. Employees. Children. Girls.”

Layton swallowed. The sandwich was quite agreeable, actually. “Now that you mention it, I do know the type.”

“Somewhat, at least. They’re always better behaved when there’s a witness who might not be as easily cowed.” Paul finished his croissant. It didn’t really surprise Layton that he would be a fast eater. “So. What was your plan, then?”

“Well, we need to research our next target,” said Layton. “I was thinking we might start at the library.”

“You realise you can’t step foot on the Gressenheller campus until this blows over?”

“Yes, I do. I meant the public library. There’s a large branch a few blocks away.”

“One obvious problem with the public library,” said Paul, “is that it is public.”

“We’ve little choice in the matter,” said Layton. “There are hardly any private records available. And you’re the one who wanted to give research a go.”

“If I’d seen the bloody records in the first place, I wouldn’t have had to waste my time with the idiotic--”

“Yes, Paul, I remember,” sighed Layton. It had been only one day he’d had to serve in the chicken factory, and Layton was quite certain it would have been necessary anyway to confirm the code violations, but he felt no need to start a fight he would likely lose. “The readily accessible archives are, ipso facto, public. That is where we must start.”

“This is a miserable idea,” said Paul, “which I promise you we will both regret devoutly--”

Layton wasn’t sure there was a single aspect of their lives the past few weeks Paul hadn’t said that about. The pronouncement had lost any effect. But Paul hesitated, drawing Layton’s attention; he looked stricken, all of a sudden. "--and I was never here."

"What?" But Paul was already vanishing. Layton turned to look for him, confused-- and there was Inspector Chelmey, which explained the matter quite nicely. 

"Professor Layton!” said the Inspector. “Quite the stroke of luck to run into you here. Could you spare me a couple of minutes?"

"Certainly, Inspector. I was just finishing my breakfast. Would you care to sit with me?"

"Can't spare the time for a cuppa myself, but by all means." The inspector took the recently vacated seat. Layton smiled a little at the irony.

The inspector waited for Layton to finish the last bites of his sandwich, then squared his shoulders. "Right. I'm here to ask you about that case."

Layton raised his eyebrows. "Are you? Which one?"

Chelmey drummed his fingers against the table. "I'm supposed to ask if you know anything about this ridiculous incident with someone crashing a dinner-party in a mask. Obviously you'll tell me you know nothing. So I don't see why we should waste our time. But I think we can agree that constitutes as asking."

Layton sipped his tea, watching Chelmey cautiously over the rim. "I could assert so if asked."

"Good, good." Chelmey nodded. Layton was reassured that he had, in fact, understood correctly. "Oh, incidentally, no breaks in that arson case."

"Mine, I assume."

"That's the one. Apparently we haven't the manpower to dig further into it. But I shouldn't talk too much longer. The task force on the gentleman break-ins is meeting this afternoon. Though there's only been the one made public yet. Not sure the press has even drawn a link between the incidents so far. But there’s a task force."

Hmm. Not only was he not going to investigate, he was feeding him information. How kind of him. "Large, is it?"

"Quite. Anyway, thought you'd appreciate the update. Oh, and you might be interested in that terrorist case with the Dove boy."

Layton nodded. "I would indeed. How is it progressing?"

"Slowly. No one seems in a hurry to press charges, despite the media scrutiny. Not that there's a lot of that." Chelmey scowled.

"How odd." Layton sipped his tea.

"Yes, you'd think they'd want the matter done with. But there he sits, cooling 'is heels in gaol. Odd, the luck the boy is having in there. Has the worst luck in getting into scrapes. The best in coming out the other side. It's almost as if he were caught between two forces, innit? One giant force of bad luck and another of good. Can't imagine what that would be about, though." Chelmey gave him a knowing look.

"Some strange cosmic forces in play, no doubt." Layton hoped Clive would make it out from between them unharmed.

"Never much believed in that rot. Though certainly powers of some more human sort are likely enough." Chelmey tapped his fingers against the table. "Was there anything else we were looking into?"

_Is there anything else I can tell you?_ "I was curious how the case against Don Paolo was faring."

"That? Well, there were some issues with that. We've heard about that business in St. Mystere, but it turns out nobody ever filed formal charges. Unless you'd like to change that."

"I think I would not."

"Hrm." Chelmey looked speculative but unsurprised. "Then there was the business with the box. But all that amounts to is robbery, and there's the complicating factor that the theft almost certainly saved Professor Schrader's life. I highly doubt he was aware of that at the time, of course, but obviously he's going to claim he was."

Layton smiled a little. "I should imagine. It would only be sensible."

"There have been a few schemes of his along the way, but I'm afraid you foiled them so thoroughly we don't have much on him. And of course he did almost nothing illegal in this recent mess." Chelmey shifted in his chair. "Turns out the only thing we could legally stick on 'im were operating unlicensed flying vehicles without a permit. He's paid the fines there and he's free to go."

"That and evading arrest, surely."

"Oh, that's always a dodgy charge to stick. Juries quite understand the instinct to flee from arrest. I judged it best that we dismiss those. Prosecutorial discretion."

"I see." Layton took a longer sip of tea.

"Hopefully that isn't too much trouble for you."

"Oh, I think his days of causing trouble for me are over." Or possibly just beginning. Layton supposed it depended on the sort of trouble one referred to.

"It's like that, is it? I expected so." Layton wondered what had brought him to that conclusion, but could hardly ask under the present circumstances. "Well, surprisingly enough, it's all above-board, even if only on a technicality. I see no reason we shouldn't embrace good technicalities if we're also stuck with the bad."

"That does sound a reasonable stance to take."

"Well, I'll be doing all I can for you," said Chelmey, "however limited that may be."

"Thank you," said Layton.

"Least I could do."

"It really isn't."

"Least I could do and sleep at night," said Chelmey. "I've made promises, and I intend to keep them."

Layton coughed. "I do apologise if I made a bit of a scene last time we met."

"Coppers have quite a different definition of 'scene' than you, Professor Layton," said Chelmey, with a small smile. "Granted, it may have been a scene by your standards, but within those walls, it was hardly noticeable."

Except someone had noticed. Why else would the conspiracy have turned on him so hard and fast? They'd likely had a spy in the Yard, or else he'd had a tail. Perhaps just his eyes when he left had given him away.

What would he have done had Paul not thrown him that rope? Would he have eventually come to the same conclusions, and embarked on a similar project on his own?

Presuming he didn't simply bleed to death in an alley, of course, which seemed, on the whole, more likely. He shook his head. "Regardless. I do apologise."

"You really oughtn't."

"But--"

"D'you honestly think you ought to be sorry?"

Layton blinked. "It was no fault of yours, and it was awfully intemperate--"

"Sometimes the situation calls for being intemperate," said Chelmey. "Sometimes it's the only decent reaction possible."

Layton considered this, troubled by the notion. He supposed he tended to equate calm and dignity with propriety. Surely it was always best to keep a level head. Not always possible, but an ideal that should be striven for. Surely?

"But you haven't seen... oh, never you mind it." Chelmey shook his head and stood. "With any luck, you won't. I do wish you that luck, Professor Layton."

"My luck has always been a terribly strange thing."

"Hasn't it, though?" Chelmey smiled just a little. "Good job for the rest of us, innit?"

With that, the inspector was off, and Layton was left with half a cup of tea and quite a lot to ponder.

-


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Let's play 'Guess the Author's Day Job'...)

-

The library was considerably less grand than Gressenheller's. It did have two stories, but the architecture was far more workaday, the wear on the furniture more noticeable. Layton looked around; there were a few service desks amidst the shelves. To his left was a newspaper reading room, shelves with a sign that said 'Fiction', and a desk with a curly-haired man who appeared to be explaining to an older woman that today was Tuesday, not Wednesday, and her books were not yet ready. The woman did not appear to be taking this well. Layton winced and looked ahead of him. There were the main checkout desks, with staff areas closed off behind them. To his right were shelves that said 'Non-Fiction', a desk that said 'Reference', and Paul, walking toward him with his hands firmly in his pockets.

"How'd your little chat with Chelmey go?"

"Quite well. He was very helpful. You didn't have to run away, you know."

"Habit. Plus I find conversations with law enforcement to be intolerably awkward."

"Fair enough," said Layton. "Shall we find a seat?"

"Just one moment." Paul stomped over to the fiction desk. "For god's sake, woman! Your free books will be available to you tomorrow! Is this really the biggest problem in your life right now? Stop harassing this poor man and go buy another purse!"

"Paul!" Layton quickly dragged him away.

"I told you the library would be too public..."

"Now, you hush before you get us thrown out."

"I'd be more worried about those purses. They can pack quite the wallop."

Layton massaged his forehead. Doubtless Paul had been on both sides of such an altercation. “Right. What do we need?”

“Quality Dry-Cleaners,” said Paul. “History, owners, locations. Do they even have any of this stuff?”

“We’ll have to ask.” Layton went to the reference desk, where a woman with short gray hair looked up at his approach. “Excuse me, madam. Do you have any information on Quality Dry-Cleaners?”

“Their phone number?” asked the woman, reaching for a phone book on the desk.

“No, more… their board of directors, locations, who owns the company--”

“Just one second,” said the woman, and ducked into the back room. “Elaine!” Layton could hear her calling.

“Great work,” said Paul, “you terrified the librarian.”

“I did not,” said Layton.

“Ran her off like a bloody--”

The grey-haired woman come back, leading a stout, tired-looking woman with square glasses behind her. “This is Elaine, our reference librarian,” she explained. “She’ll be better able to--”

The phone rang. “I’ll take it from here,” said Elaine, and led them further away from the desk. Layton thought he heard the grey-haired woman mumble “please don’t be Recipe Lady” before picking up the phone. 

“Right,” said the librarian. “Nora said you were looking for information on Quality Dry-Cleaners?”

Layton nodded. “Anything you happen to have.”

“What sort of information?”

“Any public records of their employees,” said Layton. “Anything on the company’s founders we can find.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Why?” snapped Paul, mistrustfully.

“It helps us figure out what kind of information you’ll need,” said the librarian. “We might have access to things you wouldn’t think to ask for.”

“We’re researching the company’s founder,” said Layton, choosing his words carefully, “and attempting to gain insight into his most recent business practices.”

“Oh?”

“Particularly his political and charitable donations.”

“Hmm.” Elaine took a deep breath. “Right. I may have more questions for you later, but let’s get started.” She pulled a book from the shelf behind her. “This is the business-to-business directory; it will have contact information for the company. I’ll fetch the phone book as well; it will have contact information and information on the company’s locations. Political donations over a certain amount are part of the public record; charitable would be more difficult.”

She walked them over to a table and set down the books, flipping through the directory. “Ethan Langham. All right.” She took a pen and notepad from a pocket of her waistcoat and scribbled it down. “Let me see what we have. I’ll be right back…”

“Well, I guess that’s something,” said Paul, and began to jot down addresses. “We’ll get the blueprints the same way as last time. I can’t imagine we’ll need to waste our time with every building…”

“I assume you’ll need to observe the man.”

“Very little, if we’re not going to be around anyone who knows him.”

Layton supposed that would make it rather easier. “Where did you acquire such a talent, anyway?”

“My school required an extracurricular activity,” said Paul. “In a fit of bad judgment, I chose theatre.”

“Really?” From someone so critical of the ‘soft sciences’, that came as a surprise.

“It was one of the only ones accepting new members, and I certainly wasn’t joining the cricket team…”

Fair enough; Layton imagined that would suit him even less. Except perhaps for the bits with the bat. 

“As you can imagine, my great political acumen won me a large number of non-speaking roles. But costuming always needed help. I discovered I had a talent for make-up.” His eyes went distant for a moment. “At any rate, it seemed it could come in handy, so I pursued it.”

“But you clearly possess significant acting skill as well.”

“Oh, I practised lying from _quite_ a young age, I assure you.”

“Acting differs from mere fabrication, though. Or impersonation certainly does.”

“Most people aren’t exceptionally complicated,” said Paul. “Or they don’t let themselves appear to be, anyway. There are, of course, certain exceptions.” Paul glared at him.

“What on earth are you giving me _that_ look for?”

“But the surface, at any rate, is usually pretty predictable. People like being predictable, they like predictable people. Safer and easier that way. And most people aren’t looking very hard.”

“Nonetheless--”

“Hush up, that librarian’s-- what the _devil_ has she got there?”

Layton turned to see the librarian, carrying a stack of books so high it nearly blocked her vision. “All right,” she said, dropping them on the table and separating them into stacks. “The scrapbooks can’t leave the library, but you’re free to make copies. These are the articles on Quality Dry-Cleaners. These are the ones on Ethan Langham. And these are the books that mention either of the two.”

“Excellent, thank you,” said Layton. It was a daunting pile, but this should at least give them a good dossier on the man.

“Hang on,” said Paul, eying the pile dubiously. “You’re telling me you’ve got people who clip articles from the day’s papers and arrange them in books by subject?”

“Yes,” said the librarian.

“Why?!”

She gestured at the two of them, with a shrug.

“But still!”

“It’s our good fortune, Paul,” chided Layton. “Don’t deride it.”

“Uh, Elaine,” said the gray-haired woman, hurrying to the table. “That person from the city is on the phone again. The one about the room rental?”

The librarian winced. “Oh, god. Right,” she said. “I’ll leave you to it. Please let us know if there’s anything else we can do for you.”

Paul watched the librarians as they left. “What the hell is this place?”

“Welcome to the library, Paul,” said Layton, and took a book off the top of the stack. “Let’s get to work.”

\--


	3. Chapter 3

Ethan Langham, it turned out, was notorious for his love of privacy. He was well known for managing many of his accounts on his own, not involving a finance department or outsourcing it to an accounting firm. He lived with his wife and no children in a small but opulent house in the city. There were rumours that his competition tended to suffer rather unusual strings of bad luck, folding at an unusually high rate, but that was, of course, difficult to prove. The rapid expansion of his business certainly seemed suspicious, but they’d no code violations reported. Layton was forced to concede that they might be forced to seek less public sources of information-- which of course meant that he was waiting for Paul.

And there he was, with a roll of blueprints tucked under his arm. “No dice on the bank,” he said.

Layton levelled a stern look at Paul. “I told you that under no circumstances were we performing a bank robbery.”

“Yes, but I was hoping I could force you to see sense. It’s heavily guarded and he doesn’t keep much there.”

“Both of these things were already perfectly evident, Paul.”

“Well, excuse me for being conscientious.” Paul tossed a pile of letters on the table. “I fetched your mail, by the way.”

“I hadn’t even thought of that.” Layton looked at the pile warily. “Of course you did so safely.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t actually ask me that. I tossed the junk for you.”

Layton was concerned that Paul’s notion of ‘junk’ might differ from his own, but most of his journals were delivered to his offices at the university, so he should hopefully be safe. “Thank you,” he said, and looked through the pile. Mostly bills and professional correspondence. He’d have to cancel a few accounts in the interim, and many people would be waiting quite some time for a reply. It was a fortunate thing that letters from the public tended to collect at his office as well, though he winced at the thought of what he might return to.

And then there was a letter that caught his attention, though he didn’t immediately know why. Then his eyes lit on the return address, and the reason became clear. “A letter from Flora?”

“I suppose she hasn’t any other way of getting in touch with you, has she?” said Paul, sounding faintly accusatory. “Looks like it’s been there for a few days. You should read it.”

Odd how the man had been getting protective of Flora-- or claiming to be. Still, it was true enough. “Hmm, I haven’t a letter-opener…”

“Toff,” accused Paul.

He drew a pen from his pocket and used that to the same purpose, giving Paul a stern look. Paul just rolled his eyes and turned away. He looked down at the paper, at the familiar loopy writing, though it looked a bit more angled than it usually did.

_Dear Professor Layton,_

_It’s strange to post a letter to my own address._

_I don't know how many times I have started this letter. I could count the sheets of paper in the wastebasket, but I don't want to. I keep trying to think of something subtle to say. Some coy hints or double meanings. Some way to trick you into telling me what I want to know. But how would that be possible, anyway? You're the Puzzle Professor and I'm just a girl. I'm fooling myself to think I could pull it off._

_So I will tell you these things directly. I'm doing all right here. The school isn't bad and my roommate is nice. I don't know why I'm here, which is a continual frustration, but other than that I am all right._

Well, that was excellent and of vital importance, but he didn’t like her tone.

_I've been writing letters to Luke. He's having a lousy time in America but doesn't want to tell you that. He is burning with curiosity as to how and what you are doing, but other than the occasional newspaper article, I am his only source. And obviously I can't tell him anything._

That was more of a problem. He wondered what could be going on with the boy. But of course, he could hardly ask. He would set a remarkably poor example right now… and it might be difficult to persuade the boy not to come home immediately to help.

_I'm angry. I kept trying to hide it in my other drafts but then I asked myself why. Why shouldn't I tell you? Why shouldn't you know? I know you mean to protect me, but you pushed me aside and I'm angry about it._

_Anyway, I am hoping that you will continue to tell me if you're all right. I am hoping you will tell me more than that but at least tell me you're all right. Then I can tell Luke and I can tell you how Luke is in return because you're both being very stupid about this in exactly the same way. Which I guess I should expect._

He winced. She’d been angry with him before, but this was rather colder than anything he’d seen from her. He supposed she’d had rather a lot of time, and little else to do. 

_Please be careful, and let us know if we can help, and let us know what's going on. I'm sure it's dangerous but that's why we're really worried about you. Please take care._

_Love,  
Flora Reinhold_

“Well?” said Paul.

“Hmm?”

“What’s she say?”

“She’s rather angry,” said Layton.

“Shocking.” Paul sneered at him. It occurred to Layton it had actually been some time since he’d seen that expression on his face. Perhaps the intervals would continue to grow; it hardly did anything for the man’s looks.

“Well, there’s nothing for it,” said Layton. “She’s safest where she is. And she’s safest as far out of this as possible.”

“And where’s that, then?”

“Where she is? I’d prefer not to--”

“Where’s as far out of this as possible?”

“Where she is,” said Layton, “though perhaps I should’ve sent her to America as well. I wish I’d more contacts there. Perhaps Clark would have taken her in…” But perhaps not. They’d likely pulled Luke away for a reason, and he knew their resources were strained with the recent move and the events in Misthallery. “But they’d be more likely to get into trouble together, anyway.”

“What, and you think she won’t here?”

“I do,” said Layton. “She’s schoolwork to concern herself with. And hopefully new friends as well.”

Paul stared at him. 

“At any rate, I’ll have to let her know that she’s not to worry about it and to conduct herself with the appropriate caution.”

“What exactly are you expecting…”

“Hmm?”

Paul shook his head, turning away. 

Well, if he wasn’t going to elaborate, they certainly had other topics of conversation to pursue. “So, how shall we seek further information?”

Paul sighed. “Well, nothing for it. The wife holds parties every three months. An exclusive guest list. I could maybe impersonate one of them, but that wouldn’t do us much good. It does give us a nice distraction though.”

“A distraction?”

“I’m proposing we sneak in.”

Layton sighed, discontented. “There’s really no other way?”

“You have a suggestion?”

He didn’t. “So we’re to actually become burglars…”

“I suggest you get over it fast. The next party’s this weekend.”

“How distressingly convenient.”

“Nothing about this bloody quagmire is convenient in any way,” said Paul. “You have four days to come up with a better idea. In the meantime, I’m going to make certain you have enough skills to not be the death of us.”

“I suspect I should probably not look forward to this.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Paul. “You might not be bad at it. How’s this any different from a regular archaeological expedition?”

Layton stared at him. “How is it in any way similar?”

“Making your way someplace you weren’t wanted,” said Paul, “to learn as much as you can about the residents and make off with their treasures.”

“That’s hardly--” Well, the goal was superficially similar, and the occasional traps were evidence of the first, and perhaps the last was occasionally done, though only to further research, but-- “The residents of archaeological sites are long dead, Paul.”

“And what difference does that make?”

“Legally or ethically?”

“What, you lose the right to privacy once you’re dead?” Paul snorted. “When’s that kick in? The next day? Fifty years? A hundred?”

“But we’re planning to use this information against someone who is still living,” said Layton. “It’s completely different.”

“Different, I’ll grant you,” said Paul. “But completely? How d’you know the people you dig up wanted their bones and frippery put behind glass for schoolchildren to gawk at?”

They’d have had no notion such a thing was possible, but most people would want their lives and culture to be remembered. And it wasn’t as if they were ferreting out personal secrets. It was entirely different. Or at least mostly so.

“Anyway, we’ll find out,” said Paul. “Let’s see how many of your skills are transferable.”

Layton wondered uneasily if Paul had a point, and he might have more relevant experience than he knew.


	4. Chapter 4

-

Four days had passed, and Layton had failed to come up with an alternative workable solution other than asking some member of the household very nicely, which suggestion Paul had reacted to by attempting to give him a sound drubbing about the head and shoulders with a rolled-up newspaper. He’d had to admit (once he’d confiscated the newspaper and Paul had been forced to voice his objections in words) that it was rather a long shot and was very likely to backfire, making further recovery efforts even more difficult. So here they were.

Security was considerably tighter at this event than the last such he’d infiltrated. There wasn’t any hope of infiltrating the party; neither the guests nor the servants were copious enough to provide anonymity. Paul could likely have impersonated someone on the guest list, but they’d have little excuse for trespassing further into the house, and his attempts at disguising Layton had led to nothing but despair. As well as some of the oddest insults Layton had ever encountered. Paul had muttered at length about his stupid tallness and at several points called him a “rectangular bloody bastard”. At any rate, Layton suspected he’d never come remotely close to matching Paul’s skill at disguise, and he certainly had no hope of achieving a creditable impersonation within the week.

So they were dressed in blacks and greys, in outfits that guests might mistake for those of the servants’ if they didn’t look too closely, if they just saw them at the end of a corridor or from behind. Scant protection, but better than nothing. One of Paul’s flying machines was parked in the nearby woods, and they had come to it, now; Layton stared at the back fence, the forbidding, towering bars of it. It seemed insurmountable. He almost hoped that it was.

“Oh, for god’s sake, Layton, we’re not climbing the thing,” said Paul. Layton looked over; he was at the gate, standing in front of the padlock.

“But we can’t leave the gate open,” said Layton. “Anyone could--”

“Oh my God, I should have left you in the warehouse,” said Paul. “ _That’s the bloody point!_ ”

“Just because we need to gain entry doesn’t mean we should leave a path wide open for any burglars to--”

“We’ll lock it on the way back!”

“You’re lying, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m bloody lying! Stop being an idiot!”

Layton pressed his lips together. Yes, this was inherently an unethical enterprise, but that was no excuse not to conduct it in the most ethical way possible. Still, he supposed the odds were low that anyone else would take advantage of their route between now and the time it was discovered by house staff.

The gate swung open. “Come on, now,” said Paul, and stepped through. Layton hesitated, as if the property line were something he could see. It was a line he wasn’t supposed to cross. But then, he’d encountered those before, hadn’t he? He’d been in any number of forbidden areas in his career. Pretend Paul’s right, he told himself; pretend this is just another ruin, the inhabitants long gone.

He shook his head at himself and stepped through the gate.

“Well, I hope you’ve got that out of your system,” Paul muttered, though he didn’t sound particularly optimistic.

“I’m sorry that my scruples are such a trial to you.”

“As well you should be. Now keep your voice bloody down.”

Paul had started it, but he saw no reason to bring that up. He cast a wary eye over the grounds; they were immaculate, topiaries cut in clean lines under their dusting of snow. The house itself was tall and forbidding, all stern archways and clean brick lines, heavy curtains in every window.

Paul opened one of the windows, slowly, noiselessly, and crept in. He beckoned Layton onward; Layton obeyed, with a silent sigh. He shut the window behind him, and Paul glared. “What the hell are you… ugh, I should’ve left you behind.”

“Why didn’t you?” said Layton, as quietly as he could manage. The room was dark and lit only by the faint light from outdoors catching on white sheets covering the furniture, but he was hardly going to take chances.

“Because if you don’t get used to the necessity of this, my life is going to be a living hell.”

This was, he supposed, probably a valid concern. Paul jerked his head toward the door; Layton nodded and followed him out. He knew the layout of this place well enough. They’d made certain to study it. Paul looked both ways before darting across the corridor; they made their way onward, shadow to shadow. Layton didn’t like the feeling. It was as if a hidden trap might spring at any moment, a hidden blade or ancient guardians or--

\--well, yes, Paul did have a point, but one thing an archaeologist didn’t have to fear was discovery. That was the key difference-- or one of them; surely there were many. He was used to moving cautiously, but to minimize disruption, not noise. Still, it was working well enough, and they were almost at the stairwell--

“Jason? Is that--”

Paul jerked upright before him at the sound of the woman’s voice; Layton just shut his eyes. They were patently undone. Ought they to flee immediately, or was there another possibility?

Well, at the least he would face it as a gentleman. He turned, to see a woman in a gown of deep blue silk, graying hair caught up in a perfect bun. Her face was growing lined and her nose was sharp, but her makeup was impeccable and her poise formidable. He’d seen a picture of her, though it had been blurry and sepia, a faded newspaper photograph. The lady of the house. He supposed it would have been worse to be caught by her husband, but this still boded ill.

“I say, who are you?” said the woman, giving them a suspicious look. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re lost,” said Paul. Layton wasn’t sure if he meant it as an excuse to her or a message to him.

“In clothes like that? What is the meaning of this?” Her hands settled on her hips.

She hadn’t screamed yet, though. She hadn’t called for help. Perhaps there was a chance to do this properly. “Madam,” Layton said, quietly and quickly, “I cannot apologize enough for this imposition, but we are on a most vital mission.”

“Oh my God,” said Paul.

Layton ignored him. “There is a criminal enterprise colluding to interfere with the highest levels of our political system,” he said. “I can assure you that I would never countenance these actions were the stakes not so incredibly high.”

“A criminal… what?”

“What exactly did I do to deserve this?” said Paul, to no one in particular. Layton easily resisted the urge to offer suggestions, keeping his focus on Mrs. Langham. They could still bolt just as easily if she screamed. They had nothing to lose and quite a lot to gain.

“What has a criminal enterprise have to do with two strange men in my house?” said Mrs. Langham, with less rancor and more simple confusion than one might expect.

“There is corruption in the highest levels of government,” said Layton. “There is a cabal of the rich and powerful using their money and influence to game the system to their own ends, quashing every effort at bringing them to justice.”

“Does this have something to do with that Kingsmere incident?”

Layton nodded. Paul was still muttering something about the various perceived injustices that life had dealt him; Layton was used enough to this to tune it out easily.

“You can’t possibly think we’ve anything to do with it,” said Mrs. Langham, folding her arms.

“Regrettably, the papers that would prove your husband’s guilt or innocence in this matter are not publicly accessible. Which,” Layton pointed out, “they legally should be, which I fear is not a point in his favour.”

“Privacy is important to us,” said Mrs. Langham. “I hardly see why our personal or financial affairs should be public knowledge just because we happen to have a little money.”

“Your personal affairs are entirely your own, madam,” said Layton. “The rest is the law of the land, and the price one pays for the benefits that come with incorporating a business. It is a legal move that allows one great freedoms, and they must be tempered with responsibility.”

“Nonetheless--”

“Well, perhaps you could tell us for yourself,” said Layton. “Is there any such organisation your husband might be a part of? A club he won’t explain, or mentions of political donations or campaigning?”

“There’s nothing wrong with supporting a political party,” said Mrs. Langham, with a stubborn, though perhaps troubled, frown. “Why should I do anything to help you hurt my husband, or the few friends he has?”

“Madam, you don’t know what these people are doing--”

“La-- oh for the--”

“It’s no mere political support, Mrs. Langham,” said Layton. “These men are using bribery, threats, outright violence to get their way. You must have seen the giant mechanical beast on the news--”

“What has that to do with anything?”

“It was a direct result of this operation. There have been deaths, Mrs. Langham. This is not an intellectual exercise. This is not a harmless gathering to discuss ideology. It has directly caused the deaths of multiple people, that we know about, that we can prove. Who knows what else might have happened in the shadows?” Clive’s incident might be a trifle more complicated than that, but this was not the time to discuss the full subtleties of the matter. “We’re still trying to determine just what the true extent of it is. Perhaps they’ve threatened your husband; he’d hardly be the first they’d done it to. We don’t know. We have to find out.”

“...Do you have proof of this?” she asked.

“They’ve personally threatened my life on multiple occasions now. We are doing our best to find the proof we need, but when they hide the evidence, break the rules, elude the authorities--”

“And that’s what you think he’s done,” said Mrs. Langham, quietly. “That’s why you’re looking for his papers.”

“They aren’t where they ought to be,” said Layton, trying to ignore the flush of guilt that crept down his chest. “There are laws that dictate that such documentation must be public. I understand that they may seem superfluous or onerous--”

“Oh, do you really--” Paul grumbled, before slapping his forehead and subsiding.

“--but they are laws for a reason,” said Layton. “I can assure you, if we are mistaken, nothing will come of this. We shall do you no harm. We shall never see you again. But if we are not-- then I very much fear that your husband is caught up in something that is perhaps deeper than he knows.”

“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Langham, and hid her mouth behind one hand, lost in thought.

“I am going to commit violence upon your person,” said Paul.

“Do be quiet, Paul.”

“Don’t you-- _ugh_ \--” Paul threw up his hands.

“You’d know better than we would,” said Layton. “Even if you’ve never seen evidence that he was the perpetrator of any offenses-- are you certain that he might not be a victim? Of financial threats, or of blackmail? Have there been no hints that something untoward might be going on?”

Mrs. Langham paced for a few moments, one side of the corridor to the other. “If you see these papers,” she said, “and they show no proof of these outlandish accusations, you’ll go?”

“And nothing in them shall go any further,” Layton promised. “But Mrs. Langham-- if they do?”

“I can’t believe he’d knowingly be a part of any such villainous scheme,” she said firmly. “But-- if he were-- well. Something would have to be done. It doesn’t matter, though. I’m certain he’s innocent.”

Paul was now pacing in tight circles behind him. Layton honestly supposed they might have made a mistake. He doubted it-- they’d done their best-- but it would be foolish and thoroughly unscientific to discount the possibility.

“Do you know where to look?” she said.

“We know his office is on the second floor.”

Mrs. Langham nodded. “I have a key.”

“You’ll help us?”

“I’ll prove our innocence,” she corrected. “But if you aren’t true to your word--”

“I cannot thank you enough, madam,” said Layton, with a bow. Paul was making quiet, strangled noises of frustration; he hoped they were quiet enough to pass unnoticed.

“Before I have a chance to regret this,” she said, “let’s go.”

She headed for the end of the corridor, not looking back. Layton couldn’t help but admire her courage. She’d faced two strange men in her home who could be burglars or worse; she’d faced dire accusations that could rock her entire life; she’d handled it thus far with honor and equanimity. A remarkable woman indeed. He hadn’t been expecting to find anyone of such moral fibre here.

They took a narrow staircase upward; Mrs. Langham led the way, Layton following at a respectful distance, and Paul bringing up the rear.

"L-- Randall," Paul said. There was something slightly odd in his tone of voice.

"Hmm?"

"Did you ever hear the one about the surgeon?"

Layton tilted his head. "A joke, or a puzzle?"

"More a riddle, but let's call it a puzzle so you'll pay attention." Before Layton could protest, Paul continued. "A man and his son are driving along one day when they crash in a fiery wreck. The father is killed instantly. The boy is taken to the hospital and prepared for emergency surgery. When they wheel him into the operating room, the surgeon looks down and cries out, 'I can't do this, this is my son!' How is it possible?"

"Well, several solutions present themselves," said Layton, but the real puzzle was why Paul would be bringing up a puzzle now. He was obviously capable enough of solving them--he’d hardly have been able to pose as Layton for longer than five minutes if he weren’t-- but had never seemed to evince the passion for it Layton and his associates had. He drummed his fingers against the bannister. "Adoption being one."

"I suppose, but that's not it." Paul met his gaze. Yes, this was a message of some sort. 

"It's in here," said Mrs. Langham, gesturing at a large oaken door. She took the small purse from her side and started to hunt within its depths.

"I suppose I can also discount mistaken identity. Too cheap."

"Rather. Take every statement as literally correct. No stepfathers or close mentors or other tricks."

Mrs. Langham pulled a large key from her purse and unlocked the door. "Come on," she said, and stepped inside. 

Layton followed, though more of his mind than was probably wise was on the puzzle. If the surgeon was correct about being a parent to the child, and the father of the child was killed-- well, no child had two biological fathers, but every child had two biological parents. The surgeon was the boy's mother. Now, why Paul would suddenly show a predilection for puzzles at such an inopportune moment--

\--would rather neatly be explained as a clandestine attempt to draw his attention to the lone woman in the room, who was dropping the key back in her purse, and pulling something else out--

\--except Paul was smashing the purse away with a painting he'd ripped off the wall. " _Get the purse, you idiot!_ "

Most of Layton wanted to rush to the woman's defense, as Paul was doing his damndest to restrain her hands behind her with some limited success; but he was trusting Paul, and he had a feeling, a chain of logic connected somewhere deeper in his mind to a conclusion he hadn't quite yet drawn from its depths. He darted forward and took the purse, looking inside.

The light was dim, in here, but the white embroidered handkerchief rather neatly displayed the silhouette of a gun.

"Let go of me, you brute!" Mrs. Langham spat. "Or I'll--" She stopped herself, a quick flickering of thoughts behind her eyes, and took a deep breath.

"Bloody hell," said Paul. "Grab everything you can from the desk before she--"

Mrs. Langham screamed and ran from the room. " _Help! Burglars!_ "

"Burgle fast, you goddamned idiot!" Paul slammed the door shut and stormed toward the window.

Layton obeyed, fumbling for his pack and stuffing as many papers in it as he could. "I don't understand," he said. "Why would she bring us this far and then--"

"This office is connected to the bedroom," said Paul, throwing his hands up at the window in frustration and surveying the room. "She shoots us in the corridor, she'll probably get away with it, but it might be seen as a bit hasty. Might be _questions_ , why she shot so quickly, why the hell she even has a gun. She shoots us in the office, and of course she's terrified, god only knows what these strange men are in her home to do. Where the hell can I... Give me that purse." Layton wasn't actually holding it; Paul simply snatched it from the desk and started to dig through. "Rifle faster!"

"But why would she want to--"

"She's in on it, you blithering imbecile!" Paul found the gun; he seemed to consider firing for a moment, then shook his head, and struck the pane with the butt of the weapon. In close quarters, the sound of the shattering glass was overwhelming. He pulled out a grappling hook from under his coat, as he kept knocking glass out of the frame. He yelled something else, but Layton could barely hear him as bits of glass continued to fall; it took him a moment to piece it together as instructions to close the case already and haul his... Chary? Faerie?... His chary _what_ now...?

Damn; it didn't matter. Out the window it was. The deceptively cheap architecture groaned under their weight, but held long enough to slow their descent. Paul had the hook back with a flick of his wrist, and they were off. Not toward the copter, but Layton trusted Paul to lead the way in such criminal enterprises. Though he did feel vaguely guilty about the topiaries they had landed in, which made him feel considerably worse about his sense of proportion.

Paul was muttering quite a lot, but under his laboured breath, and Layton hadn't a hope of hearing it. He just held on to his case and his hat as they made it to the underbrush.

Paul led them to a small creek, and halfway through; then he grabbed Layton's arm, turning them around, and forded them back upstream. Vaguely copter-ward, and Layton knew of the utility in running water to frustrate trailing scent-hounds. Not that such were likely, surely, but kennels were certainly not unheard of, and he would certainly rather be safe than sorry. The flow of the stream was sluggish, so they made decent time, and he rather thought no one would expect them to take quite this route, though in its way, it was the clearest in the forest.

Paul tugged Layton away again, to the opposite bank, and they began on a zig-zag path through the trees. Paul was still muttering, but the forest was growing quiet as they made their way further from the creek and from civilisation. "...just because she's got bloody tits she's got to be a--"

"Paul!"

"Oh, _now_ you stop being deaf. Every god damn-- yes, we are talking about this." Paul seemed to be making an attempt to keep his voice down, but the angry hiss was fairly audible. Layton hoped they'd been successful in eluding pursuit. "Layton, your idiotic notions of _ladyhood_ have got to sodding go."

"Excuse me?"

"They've got to sodding go!" Paul ground his teeth, clearly making a herculean effort to keep from shouting. "This, this idiotic idea that they're more _useless_ or more _pure_ \--"

"I never said--"

"When did you have to? You let the younger child follow you everywhere and do your best to keep the older at home. It's obviously not because she wants it less. It's because _she_."

It took a moment for Layton to even determine what he was talking about; it felt like another world, a lifetime ago. "But Flora wasn't--"

"One wonders why." Paul broke a branch that was in his way, roughly pulled back another that nearly slapped Layton in the waist when he let it go. Layton suspected that wasn't an accident. "This whole stupid notion you've got in your head-- it's your own damn business, but I swear to god-- do you assume every man you meet is a gentleman?"

"I do attempt to see the best in people," said Layton, "as I find it generally induces them to live up to it."

"For the love of-- everyone connected with this. Do you assume there are gentlemen here?"

"Regrettably," said Layton, "I have accepted the fact that the odds are against it. Though I still hold out hope."

"Then stop bloody forgetting that not every woman is a 'lady'!"

Layton bristled. "The benefit of the doubt--"

"It's not just that and you know it!"

"It _is_ just that, and--"

"Did you ever even ask--" Paul cut himself off with a snarl. "What makes you think these women are any less likely to--"

"Because they don't own the companies," said Layton, "nor direct the money, and it is unfortunately completely possible for their husbands to orchestrate the entire affair behind their backs. It is not only possible, but practically mandatory."

"True enough," said Paul. "But they're not always victims."

"They are, unfortunately, far more likely to be."

“And victims aren’t always innocent.”

“And yet, again, they are far more _likely_ \--”

“Jesus Christ, I’m not bloody asking you to assume everyone’s a bastard,” said Paul. “They are, mind you, but I know better than that by now. What I would like you to do is to please come up with backup plans in case someone isn’t entirely innocent or decides for whatever reasons to abruptly screw us over!”

“Backup plans?”

“Trust people all you like,” said Paul. “Just bloody be prepared in case you’re wrong.”

They had made it to the copter, now. Paul unlatched the door, carefully blocking Layton’s view; Layton politely looked away, not having the heart to tell him he’d worked out the mechanism a week and a half ago. He could hardly help it. It was a little like a puzzle. Paul took the pilot’s seat, Layton the passenger’s, and he relaxed, just a little, as the hatch sealed closed. How odd, that he should be relieved to find himself safely at Paul’s mercy.

Backup plans. It seemed Machiavellian, in the popular sense of the word. Then again, he’d had a professor who had been quite insistent that Machiavelli was a terribly misunderstood figure. He recalled finding his arguments quite persuasive, though as an undergraduate he’d had little context of the field, and had directed his studies in other directions. The thesis was that the man had been writing a critique, not a guidebook.

At any rate, it didn’t seem an unreasonable compromise. “I shall do my best to better exercise my imagination.”

Paul started the engine. “And for god’s sake, you’ve got to tell Flora _something_.”

Layton still wasn’t sure why these topics were so intertwined in Paul’s mind, but he went with the flow. “I don’t want her involved in this.”

“I don’t want _you_ involved in this, but it turns out we can’t always get what we want.”

“That’s entirely different.”

“Yes, but no less true. Layton, they set the house ablaze with her inside it. You know she’s a potential target, that’s why you hid her away in the first place. _She_ wants to know what’s going on, Luke wants to know what’s going on, and I swear to god, if you don’t give them anything to go on, they’re going to look for themselves. They probably will anyway, but it’s as close as you’re going to get to a way of stopping them. Or at least controlling where they look.”

“You don’t think, if I warn her against getting involved--”

"Well, for god's sake, Layton, what would you do, sent away from the action? Sit quietly and be good for your new friends?"

"...Probably." He’d done it when his brother asked, after all. And he’d always been careful not to cause his parents too much worry. His mother worried enough without any provocation.

Paul rolled his eyes. “ _When you were their age_ , Layton, would you really? And remember Randall before you answer. I may know only the most spectacular bad idea he dragged you into, but I’ve absolutely no doubt there were many more.”

That was certainly a point he had to concede. “But Flora’s…”

“Going to just sit there? Did you read the same letter I did? Does that really sound like a person who’s in the mood to sit quietly and do as she’s told?”

Layton frowned. “You read the letter?”

“Of course I read the bloody letter! Have you never met me?! Answer the question!”

Paul was baiting him, but it was a question he should take very seriously. He considered the situation carefully. Clearly she was angry. She’d been quite explicit about the fact. But would she really take the risk of seeking out more information, when she was properly warned against it, when it was so clearly dangerous?

_Now, why would you think that, Hershel? It would only be the fourth or fifth time._

He slumped back in his seat. Of course she would. She _always_ did. In an absurdly terrible disguise. Hopefully she’d only think to question the Kingsmere guests… but then, was the upper class really so less dangerous than the lower? If she asked the wrong person the wrong questions--

“You are entirely correct,” said Layton, “and I apologise for my galling idiocy in this matter.”

“Thank Christ,” said Paul, letting out an explosive sigh. “I was afraid you were going to get her bloody killed.”

He was afraid that might have been a valid concern. “What approach would you suggest, then?”

“The truth,” he said, “or a quick sketch of it. Give her something to do, tell her how to do it safely and effectively. She could be quite useful. You’ve no idea how invisible a girl can be. Though an ugly menial worker is definitely the best for it...”

It had only recently been occurring to Layton that someone with such a facility for disguise must perforce have a deep, or at least superficially unerring, understanding of human nature. It seemed at odds with the man’s antisocial tendencies; but then, perhaps Paul simply disliked what he saw. Which was a discomfiting thought.

“The best is a custodian,” said Paul. “Utterly invisible, expected to be everywhere, expected to be dumb as a post, they give you bleach _and_ ammonia…”

“You _wouldn’t_...”

“I’ve never had to, but it’s nice to have a trump card.”

Layton shook his head. “I still don’t like the idea of involving her in this.”

“She’s involved already, and you’re mad if you think it’s possible to disentangle her.”

That was, he supposed, the price of having connections. He could almost see why Paul (why Desmond) eschewed them. But there was nothing to be done about it save take responsibility.

“Nothing for it now,” Paul sighed. “Let’s just hope we managed to burgle the right papers.”

Layton nodded wearily. All he could hope was that something would manage to be salvageable from this evening. And that he’d learned enough to prevent a repeat occurrence.

\--


	5. Chapter 5

\--

The papers had proved quite illuminating, and it was the next evening that found Layton perched upon the study window, waiting for its owner to arrive. He wasn’t waiting long before the door opened, and a figure regarded him with a distinct lack of surprise.

“Hello, Mrs. Langham,” said Layton. “I do apologize for the window. And the topiaries.”

“Hello, again,” said Mrs. Langham. Her voice was weary. “I suppose you know it all, then.”

“The facts, at least,” said Layton. “But what I don’t know is why.”

“What reason are you looking for? I wanted money and I wanted power. Are you expecting something else?” The woman scoffed. “Of course you are. Yes, there was some big strong man who hurt me in the past, and I promised I would never let it happen again.”

Layton frowned at her tone. “You’re saying there was no other motivation.”

“Not a one,” said Mrs. Langham. 

“I’m surprised you wouldn’t at least lie about it.”

“I’m sure I could get away with it,” she said, “but the thought disgusts me. Were you looking so deeply for secret motivations when you thought Ethan was doing it?”

To some extent, but no, not so deeply. “You know why I’m here.”

“To make your threat, I assume. Well, no need for that. I’ve already withdrawn our funding. It’ll be a relief to be able to invest in something profitable for a change.” She scoffed. “There wasn’t much the useless bastards could do for us, really. A youthful error on my part.”

“That was quite prompt.”

“I’ve no desire to make a scene. It might not ruin us, but it would make things very hard for quite some time. With many people.” She smiled wryly. “You know, they thought they were dealing with Ethan too.”

“Have they been disabused of the notion?”

“I saw no reason to inform them. I just had Ethan tell them his wife was being quite hysterical over this gentleman business and refused to see any reason.”

Layton was torn. She’d clearly had few options; the world was thoroughly stacked against her business ambitions. Her ambitions, however, were base and selfish and had hurt a great many others. There was also the fact that she’d intended to shoot them. Still, his instinct wanted to defend her, to give her the benefit of the doubt. That was what a gentleman did, wasn’t it?

Paul was right; he was going to have to keep an eye on that. Still, he would give her that benefit. He wasn’t going to give up his faith in human nature for the sake of self-preservation. Some prices were not worth paying, whatever the consequences.

“So are we square, then?” she asked. “Will you be lurking around the next corner?”

“No, Mrs. Langham,” said Layton. “I am a man of my word. As long as you have ceased your dealings with that conglomerate, your secret is safe with me. You’ve done nothing illegal, after all, even if much of it has been wrong.”

“Then our business is concluded,” she said, “and I would politely request that you leave my property at once.”

“I shall, madam.”

“Oh,” she said, “and do try to avoid the shrubbery this time. Ethan was quite upset.”

“He has a fondness for gardening, does he?”

“And he decorated the house,” she said. “But I trust you’ll keep that secret too. Who would believe you, anyway?”

He sighed, chagrined at the assumptions he’d made. “It’s rather a shame,” he said.

“It has its advantages.”

Which she exploited ruthlessly, Layton was sure. His sympathies were painfully divided. “Farewell, madam,” he said, and leapt down from the window.

He was going to have to consider all of this carefully. But for now, he had a letter to post.

\--

Dear Flora,

I do apologise for the way in which I have handled this matter. I do not regret my actions, but I do regret not taking the time to explain them to you. I should have thought more about how you would feel in this situation, and for that lapse, I am most sincerely sorry.

I have no doubt you have deduced the bones of the situation for yourself. Forgive me if I still must speak in riddles; a letter cannot choose who reads it. The political forces that our young friend sought revenge against are still not dead, and they have turned against us, fearing our retribution. I have little choice but to give them the battle they seek. Luke is in America, and should be beyond their reach; but as you have already experienced, they will not hesitate to strike at you. Therefore, I have sent you to the safest place that I could find for you. I still dare not explain exactly why it is safe. I can say that I hope you continue to get along with your schoolmates, and that your roommate proves congenial company. It would be excellent if you two became close friends.

You have done me the honor of speaking truth; I shall do the same. You cannot fight these forces. You are still so young, and you grew up in a town where every inhabitant was built to love and protect you. You are learning and growing quickly, but how could you possibly be prepared for this? It is no fault of yours. I beg you, Flora, to stay as safe as possible.

However, I also know that there is no such thing as perfect safety. I have no choice but to trust to your judgment. Please consider your actions with the utmost care. I could not bear it if you came to harm due to this madness. 

You have always read the newspapers, and therefore know what I am doing. You need not fear that I am alone; a former enemy of ours is my confederate in this matter, and will be able to deliver our correspondence without fear of discovery. You may trust that he will not betray us. You may tell Luke whatever you see fit, as well. I again beg that you inquire further only with the greatest caution. Dangerous men and women are allied against us. Do not trust that anyone is safe or harmless, or that you will not be harmed simply because you are an innocent in this matter. The world is not always as just as it ought to be. Many live their lives without ever realising that. I had wished that luck to be yours as well. I suppose every parent has that hope.

Please forgive me for the many errors which I have made. I will probably continue to stumble in the future, but I will do my best to learn from my mistakes. Please take the utmost care, and I assure you that I shall as well.

Yours as ever,

Hershel Layton

\--


End file.
